


The American Dream

by tahirire



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s06e15 The French Mistake, Gen, Season/Series 06
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-08
Updated: 2011-03-08
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahirire/pseuds/tahirire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After switching worlds, Sam and Dean had a hard time adjusting. They were lucky. Jared and Jensen were <em>screwed.</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The American Dream

The American Dream

It happens so fast you barely have time to think. One second you’re feeling the satisfying crunch of sugar glass under the force of your shoulder, the next you’re landing on hard, unyielding earth in the middle of driving rain.

A second thump sounds inches from you and you hear the air _whoosh_ out of Jared’s lungs. You blink muddy grit and sand out of your eyes and you taste blood. Somewhere across your back, there are thin lines of fire. You try to catch your breath, wave one hand in the air in surrender; but no one yells _cut_.

A guy steps out of the window behind you, dressed like a character from Mafia Wars. You roll onto your side, squinting in the rain, not computing. This has to be Virgil, you have read the script, but the guy’s not due into Van until tomorrow, and his scenes aren’t even with you until you break 19. “Man, what the hel-“ you start, but the guy stops by Jared, extending a hand down to your breathless costar.

You nod a little, because it’s not for you, but hey, _finally_ there is some help around here. You barely pay attention when Jared reaches for the guy. You’re too busy trying to figure out if you’re bleeding to death.

But then Jared screams. The sound quickly chokes off, turns to whimpers, and your adrenaline kicks into high gear because Jared has been a dick lately, a serious piece of work, but there is one thing you’ve _never_ known Jared to be, and that’s a coward.

You jump into a crouch. The guy has Jared’s arm in one hand, and he’s twisting his wrist back in what you know to be a pinning move; too much pressure and the bone will snap, (You remember hearing the snap of those very same bones, the way he played it off, how you shook your head and rolled your eyes and then called the medic because you knew he wouldn’t do it.) but this is so much more dangerous than that, because Virgil’s other hand is pressing against Jared’s forehead and it’s _glowing_.

If it was just up to you, you might think twice. But you’re still wearing Dean, snuggled up against your soul like a second skin. He lunges into action, carrying you along for the ride like he has so many times, only this time is different because you’re _outside_ and it’s _pouring rain_ and there is actual _glass_ in your back and Jared was just _screaming_ and he didn’t sound _anything_ like Sam. That more than anything tells you -- this time it’s real _._

You tackle the guy full-on, wrapping your arms around his midsection as you go, slamming him into what’s left of Bobby’s ruined wall. It buys you a second, and you break to swing on him. Your fist connects with his face, and the jolt of your knuckles against what feels like steel sends a ripple effect of shock up your arm. Your vision whites out and you drop to your knees, gasping for air but inhaling only rain.

Virgil steps around you, honing back in on Jared’s body, now still and quiet in the downpour. You blink rapidly, clearing the water from your eyes enough to trace their outlines in the blackness of the storm. Virgil searches Jared’s -- _Sam’s --_ jacket pockets. He comes up empty, and there is a flash of lightning like a primal scream. When you can see again, Virgil is gone.

You know you aren’t talking but this hardly seems like the time to focus on it, and it wouldn’t matter if it was, because Dean is still in charge and he’s got your hands twisting into the front of Jared’s jacket and hauling him up out of the mud in the rain. (You remember Sam limp in Dean’s arms, Jared flopping over like so much dead weight, how you kept saying _you don’t have to do that_ , how what you meant was _I can’t take it when you do that,_ mud in your jeans and tears in Dean’s eyes.)

“Jared,” you shake him, mostly with your left arm, trying to ignore the fire in your right. “Jared!” He groans a little and his eyes flutter. He tries to look at you. You get your shoulder under him and lift and he responds … no, _Sam_ responds, moving on instinct, letting you lead, playing it out.

You stumble across a junkyard that is complete and whole, separate sets now strung together, cars covering acres and acres of land. You should know where they parked the Impala, but the mass of cars that stretches out in front of you defies your green screen work. You don’t even know why you’re looking for her except that if this is really real, if you’re really here and you’re really Dean, you know you’ll have her keys in your pocket. You don’t keep them there, but he does, and it’s all you have to roll with.

Jared is coming around in your periphery. That’s how you know him now; peripherally, never quite looking him straight in the eyes without Dean’s armor to shield you. The distance is vast, but you know him across it just the same.

You murmur, “You alright?”

He nods, taking back some of his own weight, and he grabs your sleeve and pulls you to the left down a row of cars you don’t recognize. You bristle a little. He’s so impulsive, always pushing and pulling, always driving forward, never stopping to _think_ sometimes. ( You remember Sam’s worried eyes and hunched shoulders melting away, Jared slipping back into control like he’d never left, how he picked up right where the conversation left off, _Hey man, it’s no big deal. Move in with me._ ) But you follow him, because you always follow him. Because Dean follows Sam. Because when he doesn’t, bad things happen.

You think too much.

You both round a corner and there she is. Jared tries the door and it’s open -- of course it is, why wouldn’t it be –and he falls inside with a sigh, grateful to be out of the rain. You open the driver’s side and do the same, and once the iron is encasing you securely on all sides, then, and _only then_ , do you look at each other.

Jared’s face is a little pale, but otherwise he seems to be in one piece, which is less than you can really say for yourself. He gets it, too, always gets you, even when – _especially when –_ you don’t want him to. “Hey,” he croaks, still catching his breath from whatever that guy Virgil did to him, “You look like shit.”

And you do the least expected thing ever. You laugh. He looks pissed for a second, like maybe he’s trying to figure out what you’re trying to call him this time, but then he nods a little, and he laughs, too. Just a quiet laugh, more like Sam than Jared, but enough.

Walls and mirrors, theme of your season and your life this year. Thing about those is that alone, they’re fragile things. Spend all your time shoring them up if you want, but the person on the other side can always decide to pull instead of push, then the whole house of cards collapses. Sure it gets messy on their side for a while, but at least the wall is down.

You’ve been shoring your side with iron beams. He’s been holding his up with the palm of his hand, waiting for your little construction project to crash under its own weight. You chuckle a little. “You’re such a dick.”

He nods solemnly. “So, what do you think? Misha spiked our water with ‘shrooms he got off the side of the road, or Sam and Dean are real and we’re screwed?”

You consider. “No, yes and no.”

“There’s a yes in there?” His eyebrows shoot up. “Wait, there’s a second _no_ in there?”

You reach your hand into your pocket and there they are, Dean’s keys. You pull them out and wave them in his face, and his eyes widen. “I bet they’re in our world completely fucking up our careers.”

“And we’re in their world about to get _killed_ ,” Jared protests.

You scoff, and it sounds like Dean’s voice. You start her up and you settle your hands on the wheel, and you know you can belong there.

“If they want to kill us, they’ve gotta catch us first.”

 

*

 

Jensen is as stubborn as Dean is, wears him too much, and uses him like a weapon instead of a friend sometimes. Can’t always set him down at the end of the day, keeps the traits that drive you – and Sam – insane. “I can’t even believe we’re doing this right now. _Hold still_.”

You pull another shard of glass out of his shoulder. Dean’s jacket is shredded but none of the cuts are too deep, and a few Band-Aids and a couple of dozen paper towels to sop up the blood seem to put things back alright. (You remember that bar fight, turning around and realizing you had backup, the feeling like flying that came after. How nobody knew or cared who you were then.) “I still don’t see why we literally went and got a motel. Shut up,” you add before he can remind you how it works here, “I just meant we should have … oh God, called Bobby or something.”

He pushes a grin through the grimace on his face and says, “Best to just get out of the way for now. I don’t know about you, but I’d rather not meet the real Raphael. Right?”

You nod and collect the paper towels. You throw them in the wastebasket and start washing his blood off of your hands. You try to piece together your next move, remembering the ingredients of the spell, the design of it; you know that if you have the right stuff you can get back through the same way Sam and Dean went. What you don’t know is where they’ll be, if they’ll have the same chance from your side, if they’ll end up … suddenly, you feel sick.

Jensen tilts his head and squints up at you. “What is it?”

“What if they’re at my house?” He frowns, not the response you were looking for. You suddenly remember that he’s never even been to your house, but you’re too worked up to stop and rehash that particular disappointment, so you clarify, “Jensen! What if _Dean_ is in _my house_?”

“So _what_ if Dean is --” he starts to say, but then he stops short and his eyes snap up to meet yours. “Oh, shit. Hey,” he grabs your arm, “They’ll both ask questions before they stab anybody, dude. Gen will be okay.” He lets go of you and clears his throat, mimicking Dean’s habit of running the flat of his palm through his hair, something he does whenever he needs to think.

Jensen is right, but it doesn’t make you need to be home any less. You wrap your arms around your middle. You still feel weird where the angel attacked you, like it was trying to rip your consciousness out of your own skin. Maybe it was.

“We just need to keep our heads down, sit tight, and wait it out,” Jensen is saying as he stares at the wall. “They’ll be working on it from the other side.”

“Fine,” you say, and because you don’t know what else to do, you go back out to the car to get you both fresh clothes.

 

*

 

You’ve had dreams about this happening, about waking up one day and realizing that Jensen Ackles never existed at all, about coming to grips with the fact that you _are_ Dean Winchester – always have been, always will be. Everybody dreams about their work, so you never thought too much about it.

You had plenty of time to think last night, but if the bruising on your knuckles or the shabby motel accommodations this morning are any indication, nothing that has happened in the last 25 hours has been a dream. You stare at the ceiling. If you don’t move, maybe you won’t have to deal with it.

You have to move, though. Mostly because Jared is staring at you, waiting for you to open your eyes. You sigh, and as soon as you open your mouth so does he, because at the same time you both say, “I’ve been thinking.”

You crack one eye open and there he is, sitting on the edge of the other bed with his hair all in his eyes and Sam’s perpetual frown. No way are you going first. You prompt him. “Yeah? Did you hurt yourself?”

He shrugs it off, powers through. He’s gotten good at that lately, deflecting your barbs and refusing to cater to your swinging moods. “I’ve been thinking, as long as we’re stuck here we should take advantage of it.”

Now you’ve got both eyes open. “Advantage?”

Jared starts talking with his hands, and that’s how you know you’re screwed. The animation spreads through him until his eyes are practically beaming with the utter brilliance of whatever plan he’s cooked up now. You’ve never been able to say no to that energy. It’s why you stopped looking in the first place.

“Nobody knows who we are here,” he’s saying, words picking up speed right along with his enthusiasm. “The angels know we don’t have the key, so they backed off, and anyone else trying to … I don’t know, scry for us or whatever would be looking for Sam and Dean. We’re off the grid!”

You lever yourself up on one elbow, careful not to put any pressure on your right wrist. You hope Dean gets to punch an angel back in your world. He deserves to land one without going through this kind of pain. You get distracted by the thought that Dean may end up punching Misha. Then you realize that you probably shouldn’t be grinning to yourself without listening to whatever Jared is trying to say first - that’s how you end up agreeing to things you didn’t mean to agree to.

“Well?”

“Well what, Jay? We’ve got no money, nobody to call, and literally zillions of enemies here. Your master plan is what exactly? Make a diner run? Eat some burgers in peace? Catch a movie?” And dammit, it sounds good. It’s been forever.

He knows it does, too. His expression settles down into something only too recognizable, worry and dread and hope and _I’m sorry_ , and he does the next second sneakiest thing he does after using his powers to talk people into things -- he gives it to you straight. “I miss you, man.”

You remember late night x-box and double dates to the dog park and texts over break, and how Dean felt for that missing year that never made it onto paper but somehow ended up lodged inside your soul.

Jared leans down and reaches into Sam’s duffel bag and pulls out something small. He wraps it into his giant hand so you can’t see it before he turns back to you and says, “Sometimes I lose the line, you know, between us and them. But maybe they do, too.” He holds his hand out to you, opens it up, and coiled on top of his palm is Dean’s necklace. “I found it last night,” he says. “It’s not in the scripts, so … in case it never is … anyway. Thought you should know. That he kept it. That’s gotta mean something, right?”

It doesn’t look like the one you used to have. The carvings on the amulet are intricate and old, and the bronze is dark and quiet from going years without a polish. You swallow hard but the lump in your throat sticks there, made of grief and the frustration of losing someone who is standing right in front of you, and anger too, because how _stupid_ it is to _choose_ that.

Fuck it.

You smile a little, watch _Sammy_ flicker across Jared’s face, see how they both hold their breath, wonder how the hell he does that. You reach for it, but then you stop, you fold his fingers back over it instead. “You better put it back, then. Wouldn’t want Sam to get back and not know where it went.”

“Yeah. Prolly right.” He doesn’t move, but all the tension in his shoulders just … leaves.

You squeeze his hand before you let it go. “Thanks,” you add. “ A burger sounds awesome.”

 

*

 

You don’t go for burgers. That really is more of a Dean thing, and anyway, Jensen can hardly look at a burger anymore without needing a bucket. Steak though … that’s another story. You hit up a Lonestar, probably because you are grasping for something that reminds you of home; not Vancouver with the rain and the cold and the 14 hour days, but _really_ home, Texas, where nobody cares if you order a 13-ounce and throw your peanut shells on the floor all in the same sitting. You wonder, if you drove down there now, if there would be anyone living there you know.

You have fun. It feels like it’s been forever, for you and for Sam both, and you can feel that space in between your shoulder blades unknotting as the younger Winchester’s guilt-induced stress slips away. Jensen raises his eyebrows as you roll your neck to the side, casually observing. “It’s about time he stopped blaming himself, you know,” he says, hint of a smile in his eyes, and you know he isn’t really just talking about Sam, but you nod anyway.

“It’s in the script, man, what can I do?”

“Not here it isn’t. Seriously,” he says, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the table, “this is stuff we never … we should never talk about back home. But say we get stuck here. Say we become them. What would you change?”

You blink. It’s not like you haven’t asked yourself that question hundreds of times over the years, but there has _never_ been a time when you could allow yourself to form the words out loud, say them to him with your voice instead of with a silent thought wave you sent across the top of a script with a simple look. It was too dangerous, and there was too much riding on staying inside the lines. You could never really come out and say what bothered you as each new development sank the brothers deeper and deeper into tragedy.

“I …” you start to say, but something over Jensen’s shoulder catches your attention. It’s a man in a trench coat, and he’s moving for the pair of you, and _fast_. It’s not Virgil, but it sure as hell isn’t Cas. You jump out of the booth, not really thinking, just knowing you have to _move_. “Angel,” you whisper, and Jensen’s eyes go wide.

“Friendly?” he hisses back, hunching his shoulders like he already knows the answer.

You shake your head as Agent Smith rounds the corner. He locks eyes with you and sneers, and you see the glint of metal slide from his long sleeve as the angel draws its sword.

Out of the corner of your eye, you see Jensen grab the steak knife, but there isn’t time for that, and you don’t have time to think any more. You drop your shoulder and charge, tackling the angel and wrapping your arms around to lock his arms down at his sides. He is worlds stronger than you, but your move took him by surprise and you’re taller than him, so he fumbles his footing and you both go down. He flings you off, as easily as batting a fly, and you crash into a nuclear family of four, who scream and run for cover from their scattered garlic mashed potatoes. The table cracks and gives way under you, and you feel the air punch out of your lungs when you hit the cement floor.

The angel is right behind you, and he raises the sword high. You close your eyes, knowing that there’s nowhere to run this time, thinking that you’re finally going to learn first hand how much it sucks to die.

The flash of white light comes, but not the pain. You wait, expecting the numbness of shock to wear off any second, but it never does. A firm hand grips your collar, and you feel a tug. Somewhere above you, Jensen is calling your name.

“Jay. Jay, c’mon, we gotta move. Hey, you with me?”

You risk cracking an eye open, manage a small nod. He hauls you up, but he’s holding one arm close to his stomach, and there is blood pouring down from his fingertips to the floor. You glance back to the booth as he drags you away. The blood sigil is slowly dripping down the glass, and all you can think besides _oh shit,_ and _no way,_ is _good thing we were by a window._

He’s starting to look a little pale by the time you reach the car, so you snatch the keys from him and shove him into the passenger’s seat. He goes willingly, none of Dean’s bravado in play.

“Thanks,” you say, surprised to find that your hands are steady on the wheel in spite of the adrenaline driving you.

Jensen closes his eyes, nods. “We’re brothers,” he murmurs, finality in his voice, and there’s nothing you need to add to that.

 

*

 

At this point you aren’t sure who is more fussy, Sam or Jared.

The irony of the situation is that you’ve had this conversation with the props and makeup people how many times now, but aftercare just isn’t something you have time for in a 40 minute show. So here you are, feeling trapped in the middle of some obsessive fan fiction, letting Jared put pressure on your upper forearm while he digs around with his free hand for butterflies, cussing out Dean’s penchant for not buying proper first aid supplies and rambling under his breath about how next time you might as well start at your wrist and go vertical if you’re looking to off yourself.

“What did you want me to do, let us both get killed,” you protest, and you aren’t exactly a wuss when it comes to pain but _damn_ , it hurts. Mental note: serrated knives, not so good for slicing your arm open.

He snorts, and yeah, that’s all Sam. “Ah. Bingo,” he says, and pulls some Telfa pads and a roll of Ace bandage from the bottom of Dean’s duffel bag. You grit your teeth and let him wrap it and place your hand close to your chest, fist over your heart. “Hold it like that,” he says, “and try not to move around too much.”

You comply, settling back against the headboard. Your fingers are already starting to tingle, but you figure you can deal with that later. At least the bleeding seems to be stopping. Jared is packing everything he can get his hands on as fast as he possibly can, and only pauses briefly to wipe your blood down the front of Sam’s shirt. You let your eyes drift closed, just for a second -- he’s got this -- and they snap open again at the sound of his startled yell.

He’s standing between you and the window, and from the motion the curtains are making you can only assume they just got thrown open. You bolt off the bed just in time to see a tall woman on the other side reach out her hand and curl it into a fist, the world _shifts_ and you hear the sound of the universe _shattering_ and --

You wake up mid-fall onto a drop cushion and you land softly to the sound of Bob Singer yelling, “Cut!”

Jared’s eyes find yours, wide and questioning, and you swallow hard and nod. _Yes, that happened_. You check your arm at the same time as he checks his bruised jaw, and you both come up empty. Nothing. You let yourself collapse into the inflatable mat, relieved that whatever sent you back felt it was important to keep order in your tiny, humanistic universe.

Jared whispers, “Think they’re okay?” and you press your lips together. They are, of course. They have to be.

“Yeah, ‘course,” you whisper back, rolling up onto your knees and offering him a hand. He takes it, no hesitation, and you hear a small gasp come from the circle of observers behind you.

Jared cracks a grin. He’s going to enjoy this, you can tell. “Whatever that was … at least we’re talking.”

You nod, and you let yourself grin back. There’s always that.


End file.
